


far too young to die

by starkhasheart



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley Has PTSD (Good Omens), First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Scene: Body Swap (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-11
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21756631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkhasheart/pseuds/starkhasheart
Summary: When they reach his flat after stopping Armageddon, the walls Crowley has so carefully constructed come crumbling down.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 261





	far too young to die

**Author's Note:**

> hi i wrote this in my notes app. it’s currently 6 a.m. and i’m riding the high
> 
> i wanted to write crowley angsting and aziraphale comforting him because that’s my kink
> 
> anyway hope u enjoy my hands hurt. title is from far too young to die by panic! at the disco because i can’t think of titles

Crowley has never felt this  _exhausted_ in his existence.

It’s heavy, almost suffocating—a weight on his shoulders, dragging him down, deeper and deeper. It’s deep in his bones, sewed into the sinew of his muscles, and clinging to his skin, much like the ash from his flaming Bentley, long gone. The buzz of the alcohol he and the angel imbibed in before they stepped onto the bus is thrumming through his veins, and everything feels slowed down, almost, like he’s dragging himself through a pit of quicksand composed of molasses.

They didn’t talk on the way to Crowley’s Mayfair flat. Words couldn’t be found that could encompass the events that had  just occurred, and they both weren’t in the mood for small talk. 

There is a brief moment of relief, when Crowley unlocks the door to his flat—a safe haven, almost. He steps aside and gestures inside, letting Aziraphale step in first. With an tight smile, the angel ducks through the door, and Crowley latches it shut just as quick.

“Make yourself at home,” says the demon, willing the door’s lock to be a tad more durable; certainly not enough to ward off an attack by vengeful angels or rabid demons, but enough to buy them some time if such an unwelcome visitor decides to pop in. “Er. D’you want anything to drink?”

Aziraphale’s back is to him, and Crowley can see the tension release from his shoulders, if only a little. He turns around and the apples of his cheeks rise into another smile, this time more genuine. “Tea would be nice, dear boy.”

“Right.” Crowley nods, but pauses. He realizes that there’s not really anywhere for the angel to rest in his living room, so he snaps his fingers and a dark, sleek sectional pops into existence.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale chides. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to use frivolous miracles right now?”

“What are they gonna do, pay me a visit and reprimand me?” Crowley says, feigning an air of nonchalance. “Last time that happened Ligur ended up in a puddle in my office.”

Aziraphale blinks. “A puddle? What do you mean?”

“Told you I just wanted it for insurance, Aziraphale.” Crowley shrugs. “Anyway, you wanted tea?”

It takes a few moments for Aziraphale to process what Crowley is referring to. “Er—yes, if it’s not any trouble.” 

Crowley wants to laugh at the statement. He wants to laugh at  himself , actually. Of course it’s not any trouble for him; the demon loves doing things for Aziraphale, and it’s almost pathetic. He quite literally just stopped time for him just hours ago, and if asked, he’d do it again. And again. And again.

Aziraphale wants black tea, no sugar, and Crowley gets to work. He enters his kitchen that has seen no use and a teapot full of water blips into existence on his stove, gas already alight and licking the base of the teapot. Crowley averts his gaze immediately, throat becoming impossibly tight. He digs through his cabinets and finds some loose leaf tea and an infuser, and soon he’s holding a mug of steaming tea in his hand, hot enough to warm but not enough to burn. 

_ Burning .  Burning _ .

The flames were hotter than hellfire, licking up the walls of the bookshop and consuming everything in their path. Ashes rained from the ceiling, smudging across his cheekbones and flecking his hair. It smelled of burning wood and paper—not the familiar, welcoming scent of books, of old knickknacks, and of a certain angel, who is paying Crowley a concerned stare as he stands in the living room, shades eyes glazed over and staring off into the distance. Aziraphale’s eyes slide down from Crowley’s face to his hands, which are quivering, the tea sloshing slightly over the rim of the mug.

“Crowley?” the angel murmurs, standing up from the couch and approaching the other being with an air of caution. “Can you hear me?”

The demon’s jaw is clenching and unclenching, the only sound he can hear being the blood rushing through his ears. He does not notice Aziraphale gingerly prying the mug from the death-grip his hand has around the handle, or the shift in the air as it is placed on a coffee table that had not been there before. Through the muddled haze of his mind, his only thought is about frivolous miracles.

Crowley is still as stone as Aziraphale reaches up and slowly slides his glasses off his face, revealing wide marigold eyes, the yellow engulfing the whites whole. Upon seeing the angel in full, the demon sucks in a staggering breath. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly, and Crowley  hates seeing the absolute anguish on his face. “You’re worrying me. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

The letters are lodged in his throat in a knot of gibberish and he can’t take them and form them into words. The only noise that comes from his mouth is a quiet sob. 

“Crowley?” And oh, Aziraphale seems panicked now , and it’s tearing Crowley apart at the seams and all he can do to keep himself from falling apart is to lunge forward and gather the angel up into a bone-crushing hug. Aziraphale makes a sound of surprise, arms raised and hands unsure for a moment, until they wrap around the demon’s torso, hands rubbing soothing circles on his back, right where his wings would be.

“ _ I thought I lost you _ ,” Crowley all but wails into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and he can feel Crowley’s tears soaking his collar, but that’s the least of his worries now. Aziraphale’s face twists in pain at the demon’s cries, completely shell-shocked. 

He’s never seen Crowley cry, let alone full-out  sob deep from his chest. He’s seen him a tad misty-eyed before he donned his sunglasses; the only moment that came to mind was when he watched innocent children drown at the hands of an indifferent God. 

Aziraphale _hates_ it .

“Crowley,” the angel says softly. “It’s all right. I’m not gone. I’m right here, and I promise you, I will _never_ leave your side again.”

The grip the demon has on him tightens considerably, so much so that if he were not an angel, he would be crushed. 

“All I see is fire,” Crowley hiccoughs, nuzzling deeper into Aziraphale’s neck. “I thought they came for you, I thought you—I thought you were gone forever—“

Aziraphale is reminded that his bookshop, his sanctuary, is no more. It hurts, but not as much as seeing Crowley fall apart in front of him, because of him. His chest tightens.

“Oh, dear,” the angel whispers. “Even if they took me away, I would always find my way back to you.”

Crowley pries his face from the crook of Aziraphale’s neck to gaze at him, eyes watery and cheeks ruddy. Aziraphale’s gazing at him with such reverence it makes fresh tears well and spill down his cheeks. Aziraphale raises a tentative hand to frame Crowley’s face, a thumb brushing away a renegade tear. 

“I’m here now. It’s okay. It will all be okay, my dear.” Aziraphale’s face is determined. Crowley does not look hopeful, however.

“They’re gonna come for us, angel,” he rasps. “And I’ll lose you again. And this time, you won’t come back.”

“Nonsense. We have quite literally faced the Devil himself tonight. We can face anything now, I think.” Aziraphale cups Crowley’s face in both hands. Their eyes meet, slate grey against shimmering gold. “I think I’ve devised a plan.”

At this, Crowley cracks a small smile. “Always a clever angel, aren’t you?”

“Not as clever as you, my dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on Crowley’s cheeks. 

Silence falls upon them, in the flat. Their eyes are still locked and Crowley’s breathing is slowly starting to even out. He still seems hesitant.

“Angel,” he murmurs. “If we don’t make it through whatever is waiting for us, can...can I try something?”

Already having an idea of what it may be, Aziraphale smiles and nods. “Of course, darling.”

The demon shivers, and his hands rise to Aziraphale’s neck, sliding up his skin to frame his plump face, letting a thumb brush against his bottom lip. Aziraphale can’t help the shiver that jolts through him as well; no one has touched him like this, with such care and reverence one would pay to a fragile piece of art. 

We don’t know who moves in first, but when their lips meet it’s like the final piece of a puzzle falling into place, and the whole picture is complete. In the deepest recesses of space, a star is born in a burst of helium, burning as bright as an angel’s halo. Trees with no flowers explode into beautiful blooms. Everyone in England suddenly feels strangely satisfied and content, and they’ll snuggle into their beds, feeling less alone.

Aziraphale eventually pulls away, with a dismayed whine from Crowley. He gives the demon a sheepish smile, allowing his thumb to brush against Crowley’s bottom lip as well, and Crowley lets out a content sigh.

“Whatever is waiting for us, we will prevail,” Aziraphale says, and it’s a statement of fact, almost. “And we can finally...just  be .”

“You’ve convinced me,” Crowley rasps, and the angel chortles.

“Good.” Aziraphale takes in Crowley’s ragged appearance, dark circles framing his eyes and ash caked on his skin. “Let’s clean up and perhaps head to bed? We have a big day tomorrow.”

Crowley smiles, and it’s the most genuine one he’s had in what feels like ages. “Sounds good, angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr: chadaziraphale.tumblr.com
> 
> idk how to do links on mobile


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